


A Mother's Pride

by Leah Adezio Archivist (offpanel_archivist)



Series: Changing Tides [1]
Category: Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-07-01
Updated: 1996-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:55:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offpanel_archivist/pseuds/Leah%20Adezio%20Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <b>Changing Tides</b> series. Het, Tempest/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother's Pride

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Leah Adezio, who passed away in 2007, by her designated archivist.
> 
> Special thanks to Carmen Williams, for scanning and reformatting this fic from ancient hard copy.

A Mother's Pride

 

by

Leah Adezio

 

Author's note:  Although not the first written, this is the first story in _Changing Tides_ continuity.  All typos, goofs and other screw-ups are the responsibility of the author, though she will most certainly blame the spellchecker if challenged.

 

_"A mother's pride...a baby boy...his father's eyes...."_

- George Michael

 

               Gods, but I'm tired...

            I look at the nurse as she tries to reassure me, but I find no solace in her soothing words.  The hours pass so slowly.  She keeps repeating the same thing -- over and over and over.  _It'll be all right,_ she tells me.  _It'll be all right._ I so desperately want to believe that, but I cannot.

            Don't these people know that nothing will ever be all right again?

            I concentrate on the child.  I look down at my belly, distended as a week-old corpse's; watch as it undulates with the child's movements.  An arm?  A leg?  I do not know.

            How many days did we travel together, little one, after...after they took your father away from me?

            I close my eyes against the memory.  I would welcome the birthing pains rather than have to think of it, but the image is drawn too clearly in my mind.  Bear it with nobility, I tell myself.  You are a queen, after all.

 _Was_ a queen.  I was a queen and my people were the gentlest, most peaceful of all.  I loved them.  My husband loved them, even in his madness.  He wanted to protect them, protect our way of life.  It was not his fault that disease ravaged his mind.  It was not his fault that the healers and mages could find no cure for him.  It was not his fault that every pair of eyes, monotonous in their hue, turned into the eyes of enemies.

            The pain comes again.  I grip the linens, knuckles whitening, and concentrate on breathing.  In, out.  In, out.  It does not help.  Waves of pain engulf me, building to a crescendo that ends in a scream.  Be done with it! I cry.  And again, I hear the voice.  _It'll_ _be all right._

            Why do you delay, little one?  My little prince...or princess.  Your identity is still a mystery to me.  I pray for a son, a princeling to bring honor to his father's name.

            I will not tell the child how its father died.  The legacy of a king murdered by his own people is not one I wish to bestow on the babe.

            So, my husband, my king in all things, is dead and they forced me to become a wanderer.  I suppose I am fortunate that they did not kill me as well, but after all, we are a peaceful people.  No crime, no war.  They killed him because they could not bear to watch as he stockpiled weapons to use against enemies that did not exist.  And because I could not break through the madness, could not make him stop, they banished me.

            Right after they shot him before my very eyes.

            The birthing pains crash down upon me.  No longer do I have time between them to rest, to prepare for the next one.

            The physician arrives.  I suffer the indignity of being prodded by unfamiliar hands.  _It is time,_ he tells me.  I must push the child from me now.

            On his instructions, I bear down, forcing my muscles to do what they are insisting they do no longer.  My arms and legs burn with the effort.  My screams echo in my ears as I feel the child begin its slow descent into the world.

 _Push,_ I am told.  Don't they know they ask for the impossible?  I slump against the back of the birthing chair, spent.  Little one, finish the journey yourself.  I don't think I can help you anymore.

            The nurse forces me back into the birthing position.  I notice the suction machine between my knees, gently drawing water so my blood does not fill the room as it leaves my womb.

            Breathing deeply, I bear down again.  They tell me it is nearly over.  I cry out for my husband.  Thar! Beloved Thar!  Why do you make me bear this alone?

            Push...push...push.  The motion becomes a cadence of body.  I concentrate on the child, hoping that I can persuade it to move faster.

            A burning sensation overwhelms me.  The head is crowning.  I look down and see the top of a tiny dark head.  The physician reaches down to the head and begins to assist in the babe's arrival.  He eases the head out, then the shoulders.  The rest of the tiny body is narrower and slides away from me with little effort.

            We are still connected to each other, the child and I.  I watch, exhausted, as the physician clamps the umbilical cord and cuts it.  Now, our connection is no longer a physical one.

            It is over.  There is some discomfort as the afterbirth begins its departure from me, but it is nothing compared to the agony which I have just endured.

            My heart leaps as I hear a wail ripple through the room.  The nurse approaches me, the babe in her arms.  She smiles, but I see the hint of contempt in her eyes.  She looks at the child, then back at me and I know why she looks the way she does.  What does she expect?  Of course, the child will be like me -- we are a very monochromatic people, after all.

            I hold out my hands to embrace the babe.  As I do, the nurse pulls back the swaddling to reinforce what her words will say.  I rejoice! A son!  My prayers have been answered by the gods.  A son!

            I study this new life that I hold.  So very small -- and so very perfect.  I may not be a queen anymore; I may be no one's wife anymore, but I will always be this one's mother.

            My son whimpers.  Instinctively, I bring his tiny mouth to my breast and the mewling stops as he finds the nipple and takes his first nourishment from me.  I am comforted by the rhythmic tugging.

            He is perfection.  His little head is covered with a thatch of hair as black as the bottomless depths -- hair like his father's, not silt brown like mine.  I am glad for that.  His eyes are closed as he concentrates on his meal, but I don't need to see them to know their color.  They are the reason for the nurse's barely hidden contempt.

            I would like to slap her face.  I am Berra, you foolish woman, and I am inferior to no one, despite your beliefs.  And neither is the tiny Princeling I hold in my arms.

            Oh, my son!  There is no kingdom for you to rule and no father for you to love.  It is just you and I in the world.  No, I will not tell you how your father met his end.  I will only tell you of the kind and loving man he was before the madness took him from me.  From us.

            Thar, can you see us now?  Look at your son.  He may be a prince without a kingdom, but he will be a man of whom you would be proud.  I will see to that.

            The physician tells me now that my son is healthy and asks if I have a name for the child.  I look down at this new, most precious life.  He pauses at his suckling to open up his eyes and we look at each other for the first time.  Our eyes meet and we are bonded together, purple against purple -- mother and son.

            A name?  I think back to the day Thar and I spent hours quibbling about names.  Finally, decisions had been made.  If I were to produce a princess, she would be known as Sharra.  I discard that thought and look at the physician.  Allowing myself a small smile of pride, I say the name that Thar and I had decided on that day for our firstborn prince.

            Garth, I tell him.  His name is Garth.

 

***

 

            The arguing has begun.  The council does not even have the courtesy to take their quarreling to their private chambers.  They argue here, outside the room where my son and I rest.  And the nurse wonders why I will not let him out of my sight -- I fear they will take him from me to expose him to the elements as their traditions dictate.  How cruel the Atlanteans are.  _We_ care for all our children.  I cannot understand their beliefs -- they expose children who are deformed or sickly.  They expose blond-haired babies because it is believed they bear the mark of Kordax, leaving them in the shallows to die from both sun and air.  And us -- they dispose of us because we left them nearly two thousand years ago.  How hard it is to believe we were all one people once.

            We left, a small following then, because we would not make war against the landsmen -- a war without cause.  Our population grew and thrived and the Idyllist cult became a vital, vibrant kingdom.  We noticed the mutation early in our history and began breeding it into a dominant genetic trait so all who looked upon us would know us by our eyes.  Our purple eyes brand us as a peace-loving people, and in the mixed eyes of the Poseidonians, who thrive on war, we are seen as an abomination.  When they see the mutation in their own, they take it as a mark of inferiority.  They believe the purple-eyed cannot become servants to fuel the machinations of war, so they too are left to die.

            Garth sleeps now, his tiny fingers opening and closing as he slumbers.  I put my finger against his palm and his hand closes around it tightly.  I explore his smallness.  He will be exquisite.  Oh, his head is still slightly misshapen from his journey down the birthcanal, and he is terribly wrinkled, but I know this will pass.  I wonder at this small miracle I hold -- so warm, so trusting.  I listen to the words of the council members outside our door and I fear for his fate.

            One voice rings out in the name of reason.  I hear a name.  Vulko, he is called.  He is arguing in favor of us and against superstition.  _Let them stay,_ he pleads with the others.  _They have done us no harm.  They are but a woman and a babe._

            Voices rise in opposition.  Gods, must I be subjected to this?  Must I hear their anger and fear?  I try to block them out.  They will make their decision soon enough without my having to listen to the process.

            Wailing wakens me a short time later.  Oh, little one, are you hungry again?  Opening the front of my gown, I let him satisfy his hunger and the wailing ceases as my babe's mouth is otherwise occupied.

            I am startled by the door opening.  I look up, unconcerned with the fact that my breast is exposed -- after all, am I not entitled to nurse my child?  A man stands there, stocky in build, dark hair greying at the temples.  He bows his head, averting his eyes.

 _My lady, I am Vulko,_ he tells me.

            Vulko! I allow myself a small moment of hope.  If the council has sent _him,_ perhaps their decision will fall in our favor.  I bid him enter, adjusting my gown.  He approaches us, my son and I.  He looks down at Garth.

_He is a beautiful baby._

            How can I argue with that?  I decide there is no need for pleasantries and social chat.  That is not what the council member is here for.  He opens his mouth before I have a chance to ask my question.

_The council has reached its decision.  My lady, please understand that I argued in your favor._

_I_ _know,_ I tell him, my heart collapsing.

_They will allow you seven days to recover from the birthing, then you must leave Poseidonis.  I am deeply sorry that I could not sway them in their views._

            I look at him.  _And my son?_ I ask.  _What is to be his fate?_

 _He may leave with you.  There is no one here who would raise him, and I was successful in_ _making_ _the_ _council see that a trip to Mercy Reef is not necessary._ His voice rings hollow.  _A small victory, at least._

 _He will not be exposed, then?_ I clutch Garth tightly to me.  Vulko shakes his head.

            Relief is mine.  We may not be allowed to stay, but at least we will leave together.  My son will be allowed to live.  I ask Vulko if he has any other news.  Again, he shakes his head.  He turns to leave, closing the door gently behind him.

            We are alone again.  I position Garth at my other breast, stroking his soft, pink cheek so his head will turn toward the rest of his meal.  He finds the nipple and settles in.

            Seven days.

            After that, we will be on our own again.

 

***

 

            We are a small, silent procession, Vulko, Garth and I.  The technocrat leads us away from the glittering Poseidonian dome.  I make it a point not to look back.  Why should I?  It is not my home; never was.  Shayeris of the Hidden Valley was my home and I will never see it again.  Soon, I will know where our new home will be.

            We travel for hours, stopping from time to time so I may rest and tend to my son.  He has been quiet through most of our journey, snuggled safely against my body in a travel sling.

            Finally, we approach a cliff, rising steeply from the ocean floor.  Vulko leads us along the cliff's base, and I follow blindly.

            He stops and pulls aside an overgrowth of foliage.  I follow him inside the opening.

            A surprise greets me.  Vulko notes the widening of my violet eyes and offers a smile.

            The cave has been cleaned and supplies laid along the rear wall.  A pallet and bedlinens for me, a crib for Garth.  Foodstuffs.  Clothing -- in a variety of sizes so my son will have things to wear as he grows.  As Vulko shows me a case containing books, he is apologetic.  He wishes he could do more, he tells me.  As it is, he has gone against the wishes of the Council by doing this much.

            I am appreciative of all he has done for us.  He is looking at us now.  _Do you need anything?_ he asks.  Yes! I want to scream.  Bring back my husband, alive and sane.  Give me back the life I knew.  I need these things.

            But...I simply thank him and say no, we need nothing more.  I have my son and that is all I need.

            Vulko takes his leave of us then.  I set Garth in the crib, pulling the security webbing tightly over the top.  He wriggles on his stomach before settling in for a nap.  I follow Vulko to the mouth of the cave, watch as he slowly swims away.  He does not look back.

            I reenter the cave and survey my new home.  Perhaps it will not be so terrible after all.  I will be somewhat comfortable with the supplies provided by the technocrat's kindness.  We will not starve.

            I go to sit by the crib and watch Garth as he sleeps.  Yes, I have my son and truly, that is all I really need.

            Gods, how could I possibly have been so naive?

 

***

 

            I adjust the travel sling so Garth sits against my hip.  He looks up at me and offers a wide, nearly toothless smile.  The four teeth are a recent addition, just another measure in his rapid development.  How he has grown!  And Vulko was right, he is a beautiful baby.  His hair is fuller now, and beginning to curl softly, inky ringlets framing his round face.  His eyes are framed by the longest lashes I have ever seen on a baby.  I hope they stay that way as he grows.  He is crawling now, and I must watch him carefully as he moves around the cave, lest he manage to find his way outside.  Until he is old enough to defend himself, he remains vulnerable to predators that occasionally search these waters for food.

            Enough of these musings, I tell myself.  If we do not hurry, we do not eat.

            As near as I can figure, we have been here nearly a year.  The chronometer Vulko provided helps me keep track of the days, which I mark on the wall of the cave.  The knowledge of the passage of time is only valuable for allowing me to keep track of Garth's growth.  Besides that, the days vary so little in routine that time has become insignificant.

            We rise, or more accurately, Garth awakens, then draws me from slumber with his hungry cries.  Then we rise and I tend to his needs: changing him, nursing him, offering him bits of softened fruit.  I manage a small meal, dress and we go out in search of food.

            That has been the most difficult part of all.  The foodstuffs Vulko provided did not last very long, so I was forced to become a gatherer.  How hard it was at first.  I was not raised to use my hands like this.  It took weeks of painful cuts and blisters from pulling and digging at roots, kelp, algae and fruits before the skin on my hands toughened to the task.  It does not make for a varied diet, but it keeps us alive.

            I pick up the sack that I use for our daily gathering, and we leave the cave, Garth secure against my hip.

            I try not to stray very far.  I do not feel comfortable venturing away from the cave.  The occasional shark that comes near reinforces that fear.  So, we spend this morning as we do every morning, gathering food and bringing our bounty home -- if a sparsely furnished cave can truly be called home.

            After these tasks are done, there is time for play.  Usually Garth and I stay outside, near the mouth of the cave.  It is about time he began to learn to both swim and walk.  Swimming is easier.  He doesn't need a refined sense of balance for that.  I pull him 'round in small circles and laugh as his little chubby legs begin to kick.  He must enjoy this game, for it never fails to elicit laughter and merry babbling.

            Once his legs are kicking steadily, I let go of his hands.  He propels himself for a few moments before he forgets to continue kicking, and he begins to sink.  Always at that moment, I grab my small son and hold him close.

            Today, after we played this game, I heard something that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes.  As we were entering the cave near mid-day, so I could nurse my son, he reached up, patting my face with a tiny hand.  It was then that I heard it.

            Today, Garth said his first word. 

            Mama.

 

***

 

_Mama, let's play!_

            I finish braiding my hair, tying the ends with a string.  When we first came here, it was barely past my shoulders.  Now, my hair trails down my back, about even with my elbows.  I turn towards my son.

            Garth stands at the mouth of the cave, choreographing a dance of impatience.  He is a sturdy child, maybe a bit on the thin side.  He is bright and inquisitive, always with a question that he has to have answered -- most of them beginning with the word 'why' **.**

 _Mama,_ he pleads, _let's play now!_

            I come to my son and give him a hug.  _Work first, sweetling,_ I tell him, _then we'll play._

            He pouts.  _I wanna play now, Mama!_ I think he is still angry because yesterday I made him sit still while I attempted to cut his hair.  I had to use a sharp knife to do it, being very careful not to cut his skin and it is not very even, but at least now his curls end at the nape of his neck and he can see where he is going.  He was beginning to look like a little girl, it had gotten so long.

            I hand him the sack.  _Here, you carry this for me,_ I tell him.  _Be Mama's little man._ His face lights up at the idea of being my helper.  How much like his father he looks.  It is at times such as this that my longing for Thar is almost a tangible thing.  I continue to miss him every day.

            So, we set off in our routine, gathering food, but now I have added to our daily ritual.  I am trying to teach Garth how to attend to this task, so he will know how to survive on his own, if need be.  We examine all the vegetation that grows on the cliff's face and along its base.  I show him how to taste an unfamiliar item, telling him that if it tastes bitter, we do not eat it.  That guideline has served us well for over five years.  I am not about to modify it now.

            I try to keep these lessons short, in accordance with his attention span, which is, after all, that of a child.  But lately, during our forays out of the cave, I have noticed the most unusual thing.

            Small and colorful fish have begun to gather near us, especially near Garth.  More of an annoyance than anything else; I attempt to shoo them away, but my son stops me.  He holds out his hands to them, and they circle him playfully.  He laughs, full of delight.

 _They talk to me, Mama,_ he informs me.

            Silly child.  Without any real playmates, I suppose it is only reasonable that he fancies that the fish are friends with which to play.  It is nonsense, of course.  No one can speak with the creatures of the sea.  It is only his childish imagination seeking to brighten the loneliness.

 _They talk to me, Mama,_ he repeats.  _And I talk to them!_

            I go along with the play.  _But how do you talk to the fish, sweetling?_ I ask.  _I never hear you say anything._

 _I hear them...in here._ He taps a finger to his head for emphasis.

            So, there is my answer.  Obviously, Garth is imagining conversations in his mind.  I smile to myself.  I remember having pretend playmates at his age.  Only mine were a bit more...human.

            Some more lessons, and more play.  Soon, it is time to return home.  We are both tired and hungry, so we go back to the cave to share a meal and rest a while.  If the gods are kind, perhaps I can persuade my energetic child to take a nap.

            The gods are kind.  He wants a story, of course, so I read from one of the books Vulko was kind enough to leave with me so long ago.  I read, and eventually Garth curls up on his small pallet, the only remainder of his infant crib, and he drifts off to sleep.

            I decide to take advantage of the quiet moment to sleep as well, dreaming dreams of how our lives should have been.

            My dreams are filled with shaking.  No, not my dreams.  My eyes fly open and the shaking is real.  All our possessions are moving as if alive.  Garth is also awake now, and our purple eyes are twin mirrors of fear.  I try to hide my fear for his sake.

 _Mama, what's that?_ he asks, terrified.

            I head for the mouth of the cave.  _I don't know,_ I say.  He attempts to follow me.  _No, Garth.  Stay here,_ I order.  _I'll only be a few moments._

            Once outside, I see the entire seascape shuddering.  A seaquake, I realize.  Not very strong, but enough to frighten us, that is most certain.  I swim near the base of the cliff, checking for any damage that might affect us.

            I am startled by a rumbling above my head.  I look up and see the rolling, cascading rocks.

 

***

                                             

            The shaking stopped.

            Where is my Mama?  She said she'd be back soon.  Where'd she go?

            She told me to stay here.  I want to go outside and look around, but she gets angry when I don't listen, so I'd better wait.

            I'm hungry, but there's no more food.

            Mama still hasn't come back.  I don't know how long she's been gone, 'cause I can't tell time yet.  I slept, so it's been a long time.

            Where can my Mama be?

            I know she said not to leave, but I'm hungry.  I can find things, good things to eat.  Mama showed me how.  I can do it, just like Mama.  The sack and the knife.  That's all I need.

            I go out and it's very quiet.  I don't see Mama anyplace.

            I swim to all the places we go and I don't see her.  Why would she go away?  Doesn't she love me anymore?

            I find some fruit to eat.  I get lots, as much as I can find.  That's what Mama does.

            Oh, here come the fish.

            I touch them.  They feel funny.

            I ask them if they've seen my Mama.  They say no.

            I take the fruit and go home.  The fish go away, too.

            I have to wait for my Mama.

            I love my Mama.  She loves me.

            But if she loves me, why would she go away? Why doesn't she come back?

 

 

 

 

THE END

 

  

Revised July 1996


End file.
